Grieving the death of yesterday,
and the fearful beginning of a new today,

Sits the mourning dove,
perched upon its pine tree palace.

The call of the sorrowful dove;
a soft, songful lament against the dawn's awakening.

Beneath the blue jay's ballad,
countered by the crow's cackle.

The mourning of the fallen, unknown to the world.
The mourning of the lost and forgotten.

Not singing, not chirping;
Just grieving.

But the road is a dead end.
The raccoons rampage your cooler and
The compass moves no more.
The stars stay in a moving place.
Circumnavigating your home upon
Every hour.
The poor, poor girl wanders the
Desolate halls. Books strewn on the tile.
Where shall she go? What shall she do?
The toothbrush moves redundantly so,
Updown, updown,
Updown.
Free-verse haikus, a figment
Of the imagination. Five-seven-five
Forever.
Molasses spills from every orifice,
The throat's opening blocked by
Slop and gunk.
Will anyone help?
One would like to think so, but
No such luck.

Stare in the mirror and
Comb your hair, your train
Is boarding now.

We trod in steps without spark,
A careful journey one remakes,
With days of dreams' surrender,
O love— is but a promised land.

In our youth precious time reigns
And greetings are met with sorrow,
Maidens and lads, each entertains
Graces above us, Venus and Apollo,                                                          ­­            

Gods on high, who told us stories,
Of the cloud nursery, of mountains
Keep and comings of celestial glory,
Not of gentle caress to windy hands,                                                           ­         

Of shy indifferences, the trials of lot,
Nor the endless engulf, still desires,
In this land of lost, unmoving gusts,
Go those who shuffle— souls entire.

Searching for the salty stinging
I find myself breathing deeply
The same lament I keep singing
While caged, I flutter weakly

"Beyond the hill, beyond the glen
Beyond the plains, beyond the fen 
I hear her voice lilt and sway
And all my pain is washed away
She sings secrets no man may tell
Through the modest magic of a shell
Between the land, beneath the sky
O lover hear my lonesome cry
Sing out to me, the song of the sea
Draw me out where I should be
Among the waves, among the spray
Not in the cove, nor in the bay
Take me where I am free
Sing me back to the sea"

ya I'm wondering searching for something I can't find
and I'm just pondering wondering were is my mind
yes I see a beam of light that'll surely mesmerize
ya in day and night taking this **** world by surprise
and the new moon in her eyes glistening the night sky
yes its no surprise life can't truly be analysed
well some dwell in it, some just don't want it anymore
just break free deception, specimen of perfection
yet I know what it was for, lost it, find its lament
this pale fragments of porcelain skin fall to the floor
and drift away into the wind to be seen nevermore
and the circumstance of this romance for life is
it can cut like a knife, lift to unmentionable heights

you take a long stroll in the maze of a twisted mind
oh how they quandaried on how it would unfurl in time
so spacious liviacious an endless strain on the mind
oh I really wonder will it rebuilt it self in time
yet I'm just pondering asking the world why so many lies
see there's a crack of light through this dismal dark night sky
oh how the fire dances in her eyes, as my mind now  fries
the new moon in the night sky glistening in her eyes
we say your goodbyes to what you always thought it would be
so sad to see modesty might be the end of me
oh it may just be the end of me this time, nothing' inside
how some dwell in it, some just want to live delusions
my conclusions a dillusion with no solution

We trod in steps without spark,
A careful journey one remakes,
With days of dreams' surrender,
O love— is but a promised land.

In our youth precious time reigns
And greetings are met with sorrow,
Maidens and lads, each entertains
Graces above us, Venus and Apollo,                                                          ­            

Gods on high, who told us stories,
Of the cloud nursery, of mountains
Keep and comings of celestial glory,
Not of gentle caress to windy hands,

Of shy indifferences, the trials of lot,
Nor the endless engulf, still desires,
In this land of lost, unmoving gusts,
Go those who shuffle— souls entire.

I wasn't very good at poetry when I was young.
I would stumble over the concept of rhymes
and at times couldn't hold an idea in my head.
I'm still young,
but somewhere along the way
my mind evolved and my heart
found it's voice.
I guess you could say
I grew up...

But I was never planted in the soil
of complete certainty.
I was watered by aqueducts dripping
misfortune and misdevelopment,
as if gripping reality had become a chore
and at some point I guess
I grew bored of it.

I didn't come here to cry.
I didn't come here to spin tales
of how my childhood was worse than most.
But I think we are all somewhat haunted
by our juvenile years,
as if each playground became a ghost town
and each classroom became a lost-and-found
for what we should know by now but don't.

I wasn't very good at poetry when I was young,
but somewhere between now and then
I grew up.
But only candles grow shorter as they grow older
and I will never again find sanctuary
among the monkey bars and tire swings.
I never felt welcome
but I was.
I just wish I knew that then.